Anthology 2014 by Suffolk One

The Creative Writing Anthology

2013 2014

WRITE ONE

ONE COLLEGE PRESS Write One The Creative Writing Anthology

Take a few tales of love (found and lost), mix with more than a touch of Gothic horror and a generous helping of thriller writing. Then add evocative descriptions of places both real and imaginary and several examples of psychological realism. Garnish with some perceptive thoughts on the art of writing itself. Then leave to stir in the imagination… Welcome to the latest edition of One College’s Creative Writing Magazine. Inside you will find work by more than twenty writers at the college, all exploring the world around them in some very original and thought-provoking ways. We advise you to keep a note of the names of these writers – perhaps one day you may meet some of them again at a bookshop (or on-line store) near you. Creativity of all kinds is flourishing at One College. Much of the excellent writing in this anthology has been produced by members of the weekly Creative Writing Club; other pieces have been completed as part of work in English lessons, including the new Creative Writing A Level course which was piloted this year. Some pieces have been produced entirely independently by students who simply want to write. All of the pieces reflect the wide range of talent and imagination at One College. Creative writing in all of its forms is open to every one of you, regardless of which subjects you choose to study. We would like to invite all of you with an interest in writing to pay a visit to our weekly Creative Writing Club or contribute to one of our future anthologies. Some of you, of course, will even be enrolling on the Creative Writing course which will run as a full course for the first time in 2014. Above all, though, we hope that you will all keep writing. Finally, we would like to thank Darren Meitiner-Harvey for taking on the crucial role of designing the anthology. We are very grateful to him for his excellent work in bringing these words to you. Please do not hesitate to contact us if you would like any more information.

Catherine Mann & Pete Milwright English Department 1

1 Unknown Katie Harling-Challis

There’s something about the abundance of possibilities that hits me when I stand before the shelves upon shelves of beautiful inspiring notebooks in the 2nd aisle of the local stationary store. All that paper, unmarked, waiting for the first spot of pen ink to bleed and mark the page, the blur of a hand as it swiftly attempts to capture every thought and image that appears in the mind, but never quite succeeding. That probably explains my fascination - my obsession - with buying an unmentionable number of notebooks as a child, leading to the hard to fight discussions with my mother about whether or not I actually NEEDED this notebook with a fake leather bind when I had 10 more at home in various designs. The sad part of this experience is that once you’ve handed over the last £10 in your purse, marched your way home and found a pen that does actually work, you sit down in your comfiest hidden sanctuary, you open the book, put the pen poised above the page and

pause.

Think. Blink. What the hell can you write down?! So you shake your head to encourage all those creative thoughts to rush to the front of your mind and fall right down onto the page, blink a few more times and poise the pen above the paper once more.

2 Storm Charlotte Rowntree

I envy the quiet rain That lulls you to sleep I am the storm that scares you. Shouting at the skies Rather than just whispering My words while you sleep. I envy delicacy softness and quiet: Obviously I envy you.

3 Villanelle for a Dementia Patient Kirsten Smith

When he turns, he sees, and yet cannot see, His eyes seem to darken, lacklustre pips He’s there to sleep but he’s looking at me Who am I, who could I possibly be? Am I a memory lost from his grip? He’s looking, he sees, and yet cannot see He sits calmly but his face disagrees With a gaze half-fulfilled, starting to slip, He’s there to sleep but he’s looking at me Dark marbles staring out, almost a plea, What was life before? To him, a lost trip. He’s looking, he sees, and yet cannot see And his mind is lost, a true vacancy Memories fleeting, they’re fading and quick He’s there to sleep, but he’s looking at me He’s looking, he sees, and yet cannot see

4 Beachwalk Kirsten Smith

Small waves creep in, daring to touch The shore emblazoned with pebbles, That shine like jewels against the tide, And I stand in the shadow of The passive foam wall who greets me. My boots crinkle against the sand: Jaggered edges of metal cans And plastic in the breeze, feigning Sentience amongst the sea shells. Slabs of meat hang in striped hammocks Brash, red skin and pig-like noses They leave breadcrumbs of cigarettes And a carpet of foul disease. I love the sea, that morning breeze (the childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s screams donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t bother me): I watch from the grey defence As the tide washes in, and my thoughts Turn to her. I wonder if she Is enjoying this scene as well.

5 The Scenic Route Kirsten Smith

Hills were blessed with unfaltering sunshine Piercing the earth, bearing down Sharp and white, Now and then obscured by the passing clouds, Shadowing great mounds of grass that stretch out, Over hills, Over crops, Over rivers. And light seeps in through the bramble hedges Shining yellow bands across the dirt path. A trail of people on their holidays, A white splash of paint across the canvas Looks down on the country lanes, On the weeds And the flowers Sprouting through the tarmac Their yellow bonnets swaying in the breeze Standing tall, The little ladies of spring. The sun fell back behind the silhouettes Of the balding trees with branches outstretched, Reaching to their fallen comrades Who met their sad demise At the edge of a blade. The pylons towered over the hedge rows Blackbirds fell back into the growing shade, The acorns are left broken and dying: Cracked shells, Bleeding berries, The limbs of trees are stacked in the shallow marshes, Dead leaves Floating on the greying surface, Toy boats Lay sunken at the bottom, Forgotten. 6

6 The walls were towering pillars of marble… Katherine Pannifer

The walls were towering pillars of marble, a once gleaming white legacy of times forgotten reduced to greying bricks mottled with off-green moss. The only way it was possible to tell that they had once indeed been marble was by looking at the occasional streaks of white that ran down the walls at random intervals, left by trickling water eroding through the timeless stone. It was almost as if the place itself had been crying, mourning for its lost glory. It was the perfect setting for contemplating past wrongs, misguided choices - and quite surprisingly a great place to start again. The walls had heard countless screams uttered from desperate, broken souls and had somehow gained the ability to listen, to almost wipe clean the shrill fears. No, that’s not quite true. It’s not that those fears disappear completely, or that they’re healed or anything else miraculous. It’s simply that the sad, worn grace of high turrets and vaulted ceilings, the endless blank nights and empty days it had endured had given the walls a melancholy so strong that it radiated its years of neglect - overpowering enough to change the perspective of seemingly bottomless pain. It was a place which echoed all of the uncertainties, failures and despairs of mankind at such a devastating frequency it numbed all sense of pain. It took the meaning away from everything, and in a world so full of false reasoning I had often found it a comfort. But just like these walls, time had aged me. The echoes of my once loved safe haven were unbearable. I had longed for so long for this dulling of everything, for life to simply fade into a darkened haze. It seemed stronger; its effects had gained an irresistible pull. I could feel it stripping me of everything, every thought and memory until soon I would be nothing but a shell of my former self. But wait - no this isn’t right. This isn’t what I came here for! I am no longer that person, the one who wished to simply painlessly disappear - “This isn’t why I’m here!” He took five steps more, before stopping mere inches in front of me. He stared intensely at my face, whilst I stood fidgeting - trying anything to stop myself from simply freezing at the spot. He tilted his head to the side a little, hand raised to his chin in a thoughtful pose; perhaps deciding how best to dispose of me. As his milky locks shifted from his eyes, I could just about make out the colour of his eyes - a shade of bloodied crimson. A small noise of either amusement or agreement reverberated from his throat, before he walked round in a small semi-circle in order to turn his gaze to my back. I followed his every move as best as I could out of the corner of my eye, but before long he was out of view, my neck refusing to turn.

The sound of heavy boots on stone told me of his movement before I could see him, as he returned to my line of sight. “Well, I can see none of the marks that I normally see on those who spend their days here wishing for their lives to dwindle into the oblivion.” He gestured elaborate mimes of missing limbs and war torn bodies as he spoke, before he again continued; in a tone that I could only assume is used by all leaders who persuade even the most rational of men to race to untimely deaths. His smirk had returned, more defined, to his face and his eyes shone like he had just won his favourite game. “Your problem, then, must lie here!” He gestured once again, but this time pointing to his head as his smile impossibly widened. “I-I’m not like that anymore!” The effort it took to resist enough to mumble even a few words left me with beads of sweat pouring down my face. The man tilted his head once more in mock sympathy “Oh? Are you quite sure? All those days and nights and days of sitting, slumping against cold walls, have simply-” He raised his arm to emphasise the simple motion of opening his arm, and an instant later he disappeared without even a puff of smoke. “-disappeared?” The conclusion of his sentence now came from behind me. His power scared me, but that was exactly what it was supposed to do; all I had to do was resist the urge to give in. With momentous struggle I turned to face him, my breath now escaping in short shallow pants. “I don’t wish to be one of your pawns any longer!” His eyes flashed briefly with the same shock reflected in my own, as my voice took on a tone of unadulterated defiance. Despite the brief slip, he recovered quickly. Grinning like a madman, the man simply replied, “Sadly dear, that isn’t your choice to make.” And just as quickly as the strength had come, it went from under me - hauling me to my knees. “W-who are you?” My sight was full of flashing black dots, but I had the right to know - the need to know - just exactly who had done this to me. The man walked a few steps forward until he loomed over my buckled body. “Well, I fed off your fears - so let’s just simply say I’m your worst nightmare.” He grinned once more, before my world faded to black.

7 Ophelia Isabella O’Reilly

“Red lips are not so red As the stained stones kissed by the English dead” -Wilfred Owen (1893-1918) Greater Love Past the doorway, she rifled through the wretched tomb of a boy’s purgatory. Today, a sister without a brother. And without knowing what that meant, Singing, she took the Crucifix he had loved in her hands And danced with it, Chanting that God belonged here with her and not where he had gone. Lilting on light feet, swinging round on tip-toe, his room a carousel On which he had endlessly spun. The moment he craved Came when the snares and traps snapped and he vanished one day Kissing her hair, Telling her to behave, the poisons of his own mind foaming on his lips. Praying all she knew, The Lord’s Prayer, the present time became still And though there was a roar below it did not stir that silly fear Of monsters lurking beneath her bed, Panting for the tears and the blood A man in uniform claimed her brother had shed. Grinning from dancing, from speaking that Jesus rhyme she had to speak at school, A game came to her mind that seized her, little Ophelia, To hide quietly in the cave of a daydream That stayed with her, A pool of feeling, in an evanescent ghost. She slipped under his bed Away from the high ceilings of the house that called for an echoing truth, Clutching that brother’s Crucifix, and tasting the whispers Escaping from mouths of a Motherland’s institution of cold men.

The metal cross, its grooves and corners so deliberately scraped into place, Was hot on her palms. Ever there to corrupt her skinny hands, ever to burn and scald. Yearning awoke from its slumber in the darkness, Out were the demons of a bitter world! The stones, up-turned, on a once known path! And the little Ophelia, Beneath the slab where her brother slept, A living corpse, gasping a living Death, Hid forever and wept.

8 Aurora Conception Kamara Archer

Eyes open, Sunlight peeks Inside darkness, Alarm bleeps. Early risen, Heavy eyes Towards door. “Ugh, again?” Legs slung, Outta bed *Soft thud* Dizzy head. Shower’s free, Grab towel Before brother Steals timeslot. Water drizzles, Naked skin Shudders relief At lukewarm. And then the mind wanders… Like an unsettled spirit Unresolved by life’s big questions, Like, “Why does the world…?” Or “How does this still…?” And satisfies itself with benighted suggestions. Unaware beyond the shower curtains, Lies mysteries of the cosmos…

Shower stops, Water halts Whilst droplets Wiped away. Naked skin, Breeze-exposed Dries instantly, So moisturise. And again, Starts another Day to Commence conception

9 Fragment Charlotte Rowntree

She remembered the past in framed photos Heavily edited, high posed, Brutally selected

10 Medicine Tristan Cabielles

The rain was faint. It trickled down the window. Outside, it made a crisp noise, like static from a wireless or television. A car pulled up at the house opposite. After the engine stopped, the door thudded and hurried footsteps splashed across the pavement. This was followed by a jangle of keys, the opening and responding slam of a front door. The drips of rain on the window reflected on the square glasses of the boy gazing into the street with almost fluorescent blue eyes. The boy turned from the window and looked across the room towards his grandmother. “Why don’t you play the piano while I make you some hot chocolate?” “Not today” said the boy, “I like the rain” “Who in their right mind likes the rain?” She smiled at him jokingly as he replied in a very serious tone: “I like the sound, but perhaps”- he paused for effect, “I’m not in my right mind” She chuckled the way grandmothers do – girls giggle. It seemed to the boy that a chuckle was more of aknowledgeable laugh, as old men with big beards, and grandmothers with a twinkle in their eye seemed to do. “Perhaps a flapjack?” She knew he liked these, so she already began to get up before he had looked to smile at her. He turned back to the window as she left the room through the small door frame and walked through the tiled hallway into the kitchen, and bustled about with various Tupperware boxes full of homemade treats. The boy liked being here. He didn’t like his house, alone most of the time. He was down here every day; he snuck out only when his mum was sleeping after she had taken her medicine. He hated her medicine, it made her nasty. Made her nasty all the time, so he hated her and he hated her house. At first his sight was unfocused through the raindrops on the window. He blinked as his pupils dilated and the street came into his view.

The police car was just the same two policemen and their big black hats walking slowly up the garden path. His hands pressed against the cold glass; the rain continued to fall on the street outside. He screamed “Go away! No! You’re not allowed! This is my place!” He fell into sobs between shouts, his hands smashing at the window. As he withdrew a little he heard the doorbell sound and footsteps patting down the hallway. “No Grandma! Don’t answer it!” He knew he was too late. The door opened. The policeman’s voice asked for a name. He explained to the boy’s grandmother that her daughter had been involved in an incident. They asked if she knew where her son was. The boy looked up and his stomach turned. He began to run for the back door as the police pushed past the old woman in the doorway. He got to the door and swung it open. Rain was pushed into his face by the wind as he ran into the muddy garden. The policemen were close behind him. He looked behind him as his hair stuck to his face and suddenly he slipped into the dirt. His face landed half-submerged into a puddle of water. The policeman pushed his head down further as they bound his hands. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to.” He spluttered and struggled to breathe, tears ran into the puddle of murky water. “Please.” “Don’t worry boy, we’re going to take you somewhere you’ll be safe” The policemen’s gruff hands pulled the boy off the ground, spraying up water and blood from the boy’s nose where he had fallen. He saw his grandmother watching him, with tears running down her cheeks. He screamed again; the scream lasted for an eternity. After the policeman took him to the doctor he never got to see his grandma again. He remembered being strapped into a chair and a needle brought to him. He remembered falling asleep. *** The old man awoke. Hands held him on a cold steel table. His own hands were bound to it with rubber cord. His face wet with tears was sticking to the cold surface. “Please,” he whispered “Don’t worry boy, we’ll get you to sleep again,” said a voice of a shadow. “Thank you, thank you so much.” The man beamed a toothless smile so wide his face began to ache. His blue eyes focused beyond the table and gazed out of a window. The rain was faint. It trickled down the window. Outside, it made a crisp noise, like static from a wireless or television.

11 That Day at Jaywick Kirsten Smith

Crossing the sandy turf, Two shadows on the shimmered surface. My father’s hand, warm flesh, In mine. Bitter, salted smell, The air heavy with a rotting stench Beheld to the magnitude of the sea. An anchor, coppery colour Rusting forever against the tide’s wall We’re standing statues Eating the view. Skipping stones across the water, Thin, blue membrane, Watching pebbles disappear Under a blazing red sun. Soft smiles, Teeth white like the rim of a Polaroid, Tearing through the fabric of your aged expression. Quiet, content, lingering between the brisk walks, Pauses, Fleeting thoughts of favourite days. Vast expanse of grey sand, but we stand together, Watching, listening, Talking in silence.

12 Green Lucy Allen

I sometimes think about your smile. It is the vitality of green grass in the summer. The twinkle in your eye, A bubble of laughter waiting to surface. Like the sun appearing, brightening The dark world in the morning. Making everything feel safe again. You are my soft winter coat, my insulator, Keeping me warm when it is icy outside. When predators circled you protected me, Wiped away my tears. Took my hand and whispered words â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Gentle sounds of love. I wish one day to return the debt, To care for you like you have cared for me. One day it will be summer time again, And everything will be green.

13 Atoms Charlotte Rowntree

How strange That my combination of atoms blood, stars and water, could love your combination of water, stars, blood and atoms. You are DNA spectacularly arranged, to catch my visual system, And make my supplies of dopamine Sky rocket.

14 Talking to myself in the place of you Charlotte Rowntree

My dear, if I died tomorrow, tell me what youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d have me dressed in. Would I wear white, for all my youth, Black, for the saddest occasions? Yellow, because I favoured it, Red, because you said it suited me? Would you steal away my old rings, To keep them safe and sound with you? Would you never tell anyone, Guilty at taking them from me, but unable to watch them go? Would you hold them, preciously, Like the tin and silver were gold, Like the rhinestones were diamonds, Like rings you dreamed Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d give you? Would you write pretentious poems, Like we knew what would happen, And ask questions not asked? Yes, I think I would.

15 Untitled Charlotte Rowntree

You gave me a bracelet and wrapped it round my wrist when weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d only just met. I told you I liked it, you told me you liked me, I blushed and said it back. It was too big, and I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t wear jewellery, But I wore it.

16 Alliterative allure Charlotte Rowntree

You kissed me and I felt fire in your lips and teeth and tongue, and I ignored the bites and burns, in favour of your fervour.

17 DNA/Making Charlotte Rowntree

You can roll your tongue, And you got it from your Mother. Your hair colour is your grandmother’s (Father’s side). You learned to bite back From TV, and teen taunting, and it made me laugh, (and cry and rage and want to die) Your eyes look like your Father’s but his have laugh lines and yours examine my faults. (How similar to your mother) You learned to punch, when you were nine. You punched the wall once. (I was scared I could crumble like that plaster) You smile like your brothers; easily, often, and brilliantly, with chubby cheeks, and crooked teeth. (Only not so often anymore) You got your anger from me. I pushed, and pushed, and formed it in fire (like a smith makes swords and axes) (How proud I am, to have helped make you).

18 The Climb Ian Drake

David stepped out of his car. It was a normal, grey, cheap car that seemed to mirror everything in David’s life. He was bored and tired of how things were going along, a snail -paced life of constant monotony. Waking at 7.30 each morning to greet a colourless blue sky, to put on his drab, food-stained suit, to drive through the horrifying L.A traffic, to a building that felt like a nine-to-five tomb. David had had enough. Enough of his children treating him like dirt, enough of supporting his ex-wife’s new hobbies and enough of being passed over for promotion again and again by managers and higher-ups who didn’t even know he existed. He stood once again on the pavement in front of his office building; the concrete staircase seemed like one big, stony grin, laughing at his pathetic existence. “Dave? Is that you buddy?” David looked to his right to see a big, bald-headed man stepping out of, what looked like, a brand new sports car. Puzzled, he nodded, “uhh, yes who…” “Ahh I knew it was you, how the hell are you doing?”; the bald-headed man saw the puzzled look in David’s eye and laughed. “It’s me, Jimmy, you know, little Jimmy”, waving his hand at waist height. “Oh wow, hey man, you got bigger,” David said quietly, forcing a chuckle. In all honesty this was the first conversation he had been a part of that hadn’t involved an order and ended with “I hate you!” in quite some time; it made David happy, real human interaction for once. “I sure did pal, rather rich too,” Jimmy said, nudging and winking at David. Then, quickly looking at his silver Rolex, “Oh damn I am late; hey look buddy I have to run but we should grab a drink sometime, ya’ know, catch up”. David smiled on the outside and beamed on the inside. “Yeah, that would be great,” he nearly shouted “A’ight pal, speak soon,” Jimmy boomed as he started to walk away waving. “Okay mate… WAIT! I don’t have your… number,” David shouted, hoping to catch Jimmy’s ear, but by then it was too late. He looked down at his feet, feeling even worse than before, and then to the sky taking a deep breath and slowly dragged himself through the big, shaded glass doors of “Golden Shores Insurance”. He walked past the front desk, nodded to the pretty receptionist who proceeded to ignore him completely, flashed his I.D card to the security guard who didn’t even notice him, rushed forward to catch the lift. “Hold it,” he shouted with his arm outstretched, reaching the doors just as they closed on him. He sighed heavily. “Typical,” he said under his breath. He shunted the door to the stairs and began his climb. It smelled clinical, the kind of smell that occurs from floors being cleaned over and over with no one ever stepping on them. The cream walls blended into the white speckled floor and everything merged.

His feet took on a mind of their own and continued to climb step after step without any thought, allowing David time to think. He fell into his own mind. He thought back to when he first came to America as a teenager, looking up at the giant buildings that shone in the golden sun. David had dreamed of one day having one of his very own skyscrapers, an office at the very top and being able to look out the window and see everything. Instead he had been trapped by four walls and shoved into a cubicle with the only light coming from his computer and the florescent bulbs hanging above that made his eyes burn. His chest pocket began to vibrate violently over and over. Reaching in, David took out his old, worn mobile phone. “Oh great, just what I need,” he thought to himself. “Hello Sarah,” he uttered with an empty tone. “David! I thought I should probably remind you that you have the kids again this weekend. Daniel’s taking me away to Malibu remember?” She flaunted his name in David’s face knowing full well it was a kick to the stomach; “Yes Sarah, I know.” “And remember your daughter has dance class too.” “Yes Sarah, I know”, “...And remember to tidy up that hole of an apartment before they turn up”, “Excuse!... yes Sarah... I know!” BEEP! And with that she was gone. Like a hurricane she had twisted him up completely and then simply left him to his own torment. So now not only did his feet ache but his head, stomach and heart hurt too. David had reached the 10th floor. Step after step after step had taken its toll on his toes. He stopped and leant against the wall rubbing his big toe through his fake leather loafers. He looked at his watch and pushed on, groaning as he lifted from the wall. FLOOR 11 in big bold, black letters appeared on the wall. “That’s my floor” he lightly chuckled to himself with a furrowed brow, stepping past the sign and onto the next step up. His mind fell back into the warm embrace of past memories - the years when David was still going to the beach near his home, often to escape his mother who was always on his case about being “more social”. It was then he met his wife. The mean, spiteful woman who mothered David’s children was once a beautiful, long haired, skinny girl with a smile that spread to David and warmed his soul. She had seen him trying not to look at her day after day and was curious about the odd boy in the sand. She coaxed him out of his shell and made him happy; so happy that he proposed not six months later. David thought his life was complete until along came two twins eight months after that. He had loved America since he had moved but had never felt like it was a part of him; however now he finally felt at home. He had his wife, his two children, Jill and Tom, and a new promising job in a newly opened insurance company. Everything was turning up golden. 17 years later we come back to David working his way up the 22nd floor and this morning he said goodbye to the children he loves more than anything as they left to go back to their mother. He hugged them both, warmly and said, “I love you.” Tom looked up from his phone and replied, “Ok.” Jill simply walked out of the door. The two reasons he had stayed at the job he now despises were now two reasons why he detested everything else.

25th floor, 26th, 27th on and on until he reached the top... “ROOF ACCESS AUTHORISED PERSONEL ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT” David stepped out onto the gravel; the wind was fairly calm and everything seemed peaceful. He slowly moved across the roof towards the ledge. Loosening his tie, and dropping it on the floor. Step after step David got closer and closer to the edge; peering over, he saw traffic and people. “They won’t know, they won’t care,” he thought to himself; this thought didn’t upset David, no, he simply accepted this as a fact. “We only truly care about ourselves in the end, we’re the ones who die, we’re the ones who feel pain, or laugh or cry; selfishness is in our nature”. He looked out to the horizon and realised he could see everything; he finally got his top-floor office. The beach was just in view, the waves falling against the shore and people, happy people all gathered around one another. David took one last deep breath and closed his eyes; the honking cars, screaming street vendors and all the other sounds of the city he once loved fell away and turned into silence... deafening silence. David lifted his left foot and began to shift his weight forward...BBBBRRRRRRRRRR... BRRRRRRRRR His chest began to vibrate. David stopped and quickly grabbed a nearby aerial halting his fall. He patted his jacket pockets searching for his phone and clumsily pressed the green button. “He.. he.. hello?” “Dad?” he immediately recognised his daughter’s sweetly shrill tone. “Oh hey hunnie, is everything ok?” David said, trying to sound normal. “No Dad, I need you please, I’m at school...” “Okay I’ll be there in a minute.” He put the phone back into his pocket, took one last look down and stepped back away from the ledge; he turned and walked towards the door, picking his tie back up on the way. David grabbed the door handle and opened it. He took one last deep breath of fresh air and stepped through the door way, beginning his descent all the way back down.

19 Introduction to a Novel: Ghost Caroline Rust

The cold and damp shocked me again and I woke with a start, seeing the newly born sun on the horizon. I felt its rays pierce my bare arms and shivered at the warmth that came in. My nightmare had captured every night of every day and again, like every day, I woke to find the damped light flooding through the windows. School would start soon, or at least open soon. I had to get ready. I was invisible to everybody, always had been. During my younger years of life people had discarded me like a piece of dirt, never looking at me again. I had no choice any more. I was never seen by anybody any more. My actions that followed my childhood had upset my mother, and I now spent the years repairing that damage as much as I could. I wouldn’t be enough for mother though. I had left my home for good now. I went back once and found my mother as more of a hollow shell than a person. It was my brother’s existence that kept her alive now. As I sat thinking of her, the tears rolled down my cheeks and I realized how much I missed her. Really missed her. Joe had helped with everything. He had watched over my mother in those early days of me leaving and had told me that she had been so upset that she called my father. When she found I was dead my father had left without a word after the funeral, never to come back again. Joe was my soul mate. Literally. We had spent endless nights wasting away our endless dying lives. Joe had been born eight years before me and had we both been still living, we would probably be married by now. We were effectively married now. Twelve years after my disappearance. We couldn’t have the children that we now longed for but we could help each other. I had rarely left my final place of rest. The place where they had found me dead. It was here it this college that I had found my end after years of pain, I had entered the next world and seen Joe for the first time. That was the first thing that I saw. Joe. My restless soul had tried to change the luck that I had had by changing the lives of those I met.

20 Masquerade Katherine Pannifer

This piece was written in October, and was meant to reflect autumn - for whatever reason this made me think of a masquerade. Sadly, this only the opening to a much longer pieceâ&#x20AC;Ś As soon as my boot rung on white marble, I knew instantly I was out of place. The path was lit at both sides by evenly placed candles, flickering auburn shades onto unburdened trees. Crisp leaves had been brushed of the pathway and lay in small heaps, like logs for a fire. Gripping the porcelain ever tighter in my hand, amazed it had not yet broken under the strain, I turned to thank the carriage driver; puzzled to find that despite not a sound having been made by the trotting of hooves, the carriage had disappeared. Shaking my head silently to myself, as if to dispel such superstitious thoughts, I adjusted one of the many ruffles on the hot, cumbersome costume. I lifted my eye line to the towering building ahead and started to walk down the sliver of marble. The echoes of my own steps bounced off the bare trees, straight into my head, and made the walk seem endless. I let out a long sigh of white breath, before rubbing my gloveless hands together and bringing them to my face, and letting out another cloud of white in a vain attempt to warm them. Resigning myself to having cold hands until I entered the hall, I sped up a little. I was in no rush to be there, no, in fact much the opposite. The late arrival of my presence was entirely planned; I detested such events and had taken great measures in the past to avoid them. But there was something, just something, about this one that had persuaded me to go. The anonymous invite perhaps? Yet I had received those aplenty before. The date? Alas, I was not superstitious either. Then the fates, maybe? I chuckled quietly, snapping out of my thoughts just in time to notice I was fast approaching the steps, and had narrowly avoided walking straight into a rather elaborate water fountain. As I made my way towards the grandiose hall each step upwards felt like a burden was added to my back, deadening my legs and causing the throbbing between my eyes to grow at a much more frenzied pace. I acutely wondered if this was physically noticeable, or if I was due to faint, before reaching the large balcony-like area in front of the main entrance. Making a considerable effort to hold good posture despite my now maddening migraine, I wandered towards the door, predominantly ignoring the autumnal garlands of dried leaves and a multitude of pumpkins that adorned the area. I sighed once more, the last chance I would have to even consider the possibility of turning back, and placed one foot on the step before the large mahogany doors -

“Hello…Sir…Maugham, if I am not mistaken?” The questioning voice came from behind me, and I must admit I was relieved to have another reason to delay before entering. “Yes, you are quite correct,” I replied curtly, taking a step back and turning towards the direction of the voice. “However at this type of event, I doubt such formality is necessary - Please, do call me Vincent.” As I had now turned full circle to face the speaker, I noted that he was young, perhaps younger than I, and dressed almost solely in red, brown and white with the exception of knee high black boots. The overall impression was that of a fox, but then I suppose that was indeed the idea as his face was adorned with a mask much resembling the animal. He chuckled, unclasping a red velvet cape from his shoulder and throwing it aside. “Quite the contrary, my dear Vincent. Concealing your identity is very much the point of a masquerade ball, after all.” Before I could fire back an equally sarcastic comment he placed one slim finger in a silencing gesture in front of the mouth of his mask, which in itself almost seemed to blend into his own naturally umber hair. “Oh, and before you mistake my words for malice, please know that I warn you for your own safety, hmm?” “My own safety? This is a ball, not a crime scene.” I asked incredulously, however for reasons unknown something in his words rang true, and sent shivers to my core. “True, true…” he replied, his words trailing off as he reclined against white railings, decorated with brown ribbons. I stood still, silently staring at him for a moment, expecting another outburst. After nothing occurred, I turned and reached out my hand again for the door handle. “One other thing.” His voice came, barely louder than a whisper. “And that would be?” I said, deliberately not turning again to face the strange man. “I’d put on your mask before entering if I were you. That is, unless you’d like everyone to know who you are…” I nodded at his words - he perhaps made a point - and brought the white mask to my face. Tying the strings tightly, I started to turn. “Yes…thank you. I shall see you inside I suppose.” But as I turned fully, he, much like the carriage driver, was no-where to be seen. Turning again, for the final time, I reached and opened the large doors with an audible creek. “Seems that Hallows Eve is living up to its name...” I muttered to myself.

21 I am Male Huw Johnson

I am Male, I am Female. Does it really matter? When we are cut, don’t we both bleed? I am tall, I am short. Does it really matter? When we are sad, don’t we both cry? I am faith, I am doubt. Does it really matter? When a loved one dies, don’t we both mourn? I am white, I am black. Does it really matter? When we are beat, don’t we both die? I am you, I am the child hanging from the tree. In the end does it really matter why you hung me up upon this tree? When all is said and done, Why a sin is committed is nothing but words, For in the end a sin has been committed and no words Will ever wipe that taint from your soul.

22 Realm of Desolation Katie Foster

Undeniable aspects surround us. I, high up here, cannot seem to clear my mind; the breeze lifts the leaves in a bound. Hetty, she tries to leap that bound and catch them. In her figureless misty state they pass on as if nothing would ever make them stop and shriek. This wind is strong against my form. It makes me stagger and try to keep my bare feet on this relentless earth. It quakes underneath, stalls my movement. “‘Hetty,”’ I say. “Hetty, the trees and moorland is swaying”. A crack and with it silence. ‘Hetty, oh Hetty, please reveal to me this cursed torture. This expanse where I stand. This white area of life. Reveal to me what is hidden and what is hiding.” For a second I stand alone - whether she wishes to include me I have no idea. A blast is felt through the expanse. An ear-splitting noise. I shudder but was that the area or was that my eardrums hearing noise through the silence? Probably my fear making itself known. I start anew as I feel the movement of the earth beat revealing someone near. ‘Oh Hetty, who is it that has walked this place afore and will come soon, walking anew? Tell me Hetty’. I feel my breath. I can see it in the air, rising with the wind. Under the tree, over a little distance from where I stand on this cliff, a silhouette appears standing facing me. A man’s silhouette listening, I see, to something I cannot hear. ‘Hetty,’ I whisper to the wind. ‘I don’t understand, I cannot hear anything’. The snow on the ground lifts up momentarily with it bringing sound to me. Mutterings, I hear them now. ‘Thank you,’ I say silently to Hetty. This man - he has both enemies and companions I cannot see. Never mind this, I think to myself, focus on the man in view and what is being said. The man stops abruptly, moaning to himself in agitation. ‘My girl she can’t be… she can’t’ I don’t understand this. This man, why is he so forlorn? My fate has led me here, but why? What is the connection? I see the man turning as if to go. I want to follow him, to seek him out and I realise I can’t for I am stuck here with Hetty as my companion in this land. At least it is breathing, was my thought when I found I was stuck. Now I fear for both life and death as one. My companion Hetty has always been here lingering in this place. She cannot move on just as I find I cannot either.

After a while the snow stills at my feet and I see the man again. He’s breathing deeply, clutching a piece of torn material. I assume it has some connection with the girl he mentioned. He must be torn over whatever has happened to her, whatever has led her to her fate. He starts to stagger as if someone is jerking him on or perhaps he can feel someone watching him. Maybe he knows I am watching but can’t see me - and as for Hetty there are not many people who see her. I have to remember that this vision of the man may not be real but a scene or picture of him from before I came here. ‘You’ he shouts just before I see the enemy or what must be his anyway. He was cute at least as I see him - now he may be ugly, haggard and deranged for all I know.

23 Orange Fingers Zack Davies

You stand there, scruffy and bedraggled as ever Neck craned to its fullest extent, searching for your next victim That golden glint of mischief in your eyes, influencing everything you do. Your movements, deliberate and clumsy, like a child. I know you well, more so than you might think. Since we both donned shirt and tie, I believe I have seen more mercy in a crouching tiger Belligerent, boisterous and brash, only you decide when I am upset. My wish is that you will never change. But I will never forget that day your fingers were stained orange.

24 Imaginary Travel Writing 1: The Great Barrier Reef Sophie Hallewell

I’ve not seen many things in my life-time. Confined to a small village, a college and a Saturday job at a local pub that offers ‘Beer and a Burger - £4.99! Every Thursday!’ I have long accepted the routine examples of late-teen life that meet my eyes. Nonetheless, despite my unwilling ignorance to the outside world and its glorious contents, I can fairly confidently say that there is no sight to see, more breathtaking than the surroundings that captured my soul just hours ago. My widened eyes were no longer caged by Suffolk’s limited attractions, but aided by a tightly fitted mask. My person, no longer constricted by a ketchup-stained apron, instead took on a shiny, second skin. I was weightless - free from the heavy burdens promised a million miles above me. No unsatisfied customers, no deadlines or textbooks, no routine examples of late-teen life. Just me and the ocean. I hovered effortlessly, for the first time drifting not in mind but in spirit. It may sound dramatic but I became a new person. A new person blessed with memories worth treasuring for an eternity. Drenched in cool, clear water, I was thirsty for more. My eyes could not keep up with my reactions. The instant I managed to process one extraordinary vision, another swam by me! The colours. Every last one of them. Intense. Rich. Deep. I felt intoxicated with amazement. I realised humbly that what was once nothing more than a blob of blue on an atlas, was actually a hidden world, incomparable to anything I’d yet to discover in the green. I was Wendy, swept away by Peter Pan into a fairytale! Except even Disney has failed to present its audience with an adventure as mesmerising as this! This - this was real magic! I glanced down at my rubbery flippers, childishly wishing them to be real. I never wanted to leave this liquid sanctuary. The man-made air in my mouth felt unusually dry, a harsh reminder that I was attached to an oxygen tank that would soon decide my inevitable return to land. Before today the most elegant, exciting fish I’d seen had was handed to me in a newspaper blanket, accompanied by chips. The colours! Fuchsia, magenta, turquoise, indigo - even the black was more provocative in this underwater kingdom. Skinny fish with pointed faces like patterned darts. They swam gracefully within arm’s reach of my stunned face. I imagined they were the ‘popular girls’ of the sea-creature playground. Fish disguised as rocks rose startlingly from their sandy parking spot before zooming off in the opposite direction with incomprehensible urgency. ‘Business fish’.

I glanced reluctantly at my oxygen level and saw I had little time. I thought of how the last fifteen minutes of a night shift could seem like an eternity. I felt as if I had only lowered my eager body off of the boat and into the water a mere twenty minutes previously. I wasn’t ready to leave. I gazed around in baffled disbelief. There was so much more I wanted to see. I knew that behind every nook and cranny of the oceans natural decor hid another mystery that would send my excitement into over-drive. Violet seahorses pranced about beneath me, dancing and communicating with each other - asking me to stay. I wish I were back there now, kicking my feet through the bubbles, spying on clown fish and turtles. I wish I had savoured the experience for just a moment longer. Taken a mental picture of every inch of space within my sight. In another life I’ll be a mermaid. Until that day however, I will remain ever-grateful for the fascinating beauty I discovered beneath the ripples. I close my eyes. I’m there.

25 She Entices Me Kirsten Smith

I am sick and vexed of chafing bonds You linger like aphotic dreams Philotes, do not tempt me so, You torment me with sensual schemes! Have you no heart to let me go? You lure with eyes and sublime curves. How thoughtful that you exploit love But keep your interests in reserve Am I not worthy to appeal to Peitho’s unrequited fantasies? Behind the shade of ravishment, I sense that there is love for me A distasteful past cannot stray me From a path that’s bound for loving youth, My heart is tender, young and learning, But I only know it beats for you So how on Earth did it come to be That I, so lowly and unsure, Was captivated by your smile Trained to seduce and to allure? Ah, but Aphrodite, so divine, You are too cold to seek the truth, That I was falling from the start And that I truly do love you How sad it is that by your spell I am unable to return To a life so simply led Where passion was not something yearned My head doesn’t rest when night then falls, My mind spins threads of dreams unknown But relish in beguiling image Of golden curls and bare skin shown Your tongue, a crescendo of beauty, Your words are all I require Such lustful speech, inviting lips, Bewitching rear which I admire!

You enamour me like none before A goddess, so impassioned, We share the longing for a romance That perhaps seems quite old-fashioned You are lascivious, longing touch, But can you find solace in the heat Of burning love, indecent thoughts, As I lay vulnerable at your feet?

26 The Treehouse Charlotte Rowntree

The house that reached the sky, built by your ancestors, I always thought the earth had grown it just for you and I. The house that swept the sun Where we were Knights and Queens Until the night rolled in, And every battle left was won. The house that weathered storms, Of civil wars between Our parents and ourselves, And hiding there until day dawns. The house that was too small, the expended effort To fit in small spaces, Between claustrophobic walls. The house that had been rotting, Far longer than Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d known, The ceiling falling in, I watched our kingdom fall.

27 Youth Isabella O’Reilly

Bath time was the best time When I was a child. I remember Feeling young. Skimming across the days. Pulling myself along the bath on my back, my hair rippling out like crude oil, staining the water with greed. I remember Pushing back. Feeling the water at my chin. They scolded me, yes they did. The water wasn’t for them, I remember. It wasn’t for them. It was for me. So bath time was the best time When I was a child. I remember being free, wanting nothing, my hair curled around me like claw marks of money on my otherwise pale skin. Grinning. I miss that little girl. She’s gone. And I want her to come home, someday, smiling.

28 Crime Scene Edward Sweet

The glistening, cracked road was doused with garish yellow light, giving everything a vile, sickly look to it. The blinding glare of the hunched street lamps permeated your very being. The machine gun rattle of the rain smashing down onto metal tried to cut down the low murmurs coming from the dimly lit pub at the end of the street. The rusted stop sign was a final bold reminder to all who dared enter to turn back and get as far away as you could. However, the man in the suit kept walking. The man in the suit whistled a tuneless rendition of ‘The Sound of Silence’ as he strode along the pavement, the tapping of his feet against the hard concrete acting as an echoing metronome, perfectly matching the beat of the tune with every step. His shadow spilled onto a nearby house, seeping into the paintwork that may had once been white, but now was dulled into a gritty grey. Out of the corner of his eye, the man saw a drunk stumbling down the road, a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand. Noticing the drunk, the man edged closer to him. Just then, the drunk stopped, stumbling to the side of the road where a nearby hedge warily guarded a house, now yellow in the dirty light. Laughing gleefully, the drunk stopped, his trousers fell to around his ankles and a hissing steaming stream shot into the hedge. The man in the suit stalked closer, reaching into his pitch-dark suit. At the sound of the suited man’s footsteps, the drunk turned around, cursing as he saw the darkness inching towards him, clumsily groping around his ankles for his trousers to put them back on, when suddenly he noticed the steel flash of a knife clutched in a clean white glove. Instinctively fumbling for the bottle, the drunk smashed it against the ground, raising the serrated glass to protect himself as the knife drew near, yelling in a slurred voice, “Come on then, yer want some? Yer fackin’ wan’ some?”, his hands trembling, his brow shining with sweat, so much so that the man could see his own reflection on the drunk’s forehead. The drunk thought that he could at least wound the man’s arm, so he lashed out, missing by inches. The man jolted out of the way with reflex speed, moving to the drunk’s side and lashing out a bone-shattering palm that gave a resounding crack as the drunk collapsed onto the ground in a heap, whimpering and clutching at his now fractured arm, blood spilling into the gutter. The man crouched down, brandishing the knife, relishing the moment as his prey lay wounded, ready for the kill. No-one could hear the screaming – it was past midnight, so everyone was probably fast asleep, and the roars and shouting from the pub had increased, probably some row that would inevitably lead to a fight, as was typical in this area so late at night.

Through the alcohol’s hazy effects, the drunk could only see growing darkness and the occasional glimmer of silver as he saw the zips covering his assailant’s shining leather face. Then pure paralysing fear as the man glared at him, saw his own glaring red eyes in his victim’s desperate, tearful ones, and a smile broke across the man’s face. A chuckle escaped from the man, and, like a python, the white glove and flash of steel ripped across the drunk’s chest and throat, and then it was over. Through all that, the man never said a word. Getting up, removing his mask and gloves and folding them into his pocket, the man turned, glanced behind him at the lifeless lump of lacerated flesh, and strolled on through the street as if nothing had happened, and, starting his song again, under cover of night, shadow and rain, began to sing. “Hello darkness my old friend, I’ve come to talk to you again...” And with that, he vanished into the night.

29 The Beginning is Simple to Mark Katie Harling-Challis

The beginning is simple to mark A touch, hesitant A look, no longer loving. We fell into each other’s arms – in the beginning But now we fall with knives in hand A scratch, a stab, a scar for life, Or death if we fall that hard. And now I watch you in constant fear Oh, my dear, what have we become? That the two of us, once warm and bright, Have now become that Dark man’s light With knives agleaming in the twilight As, with one fell swoop from both our arms We end each other In unison At the twilight.

Together

30 Blue Skies Isabella O’Reilly

You stand there with your arms outstretched For the sun. Blue eyes closed – and you breathe. The golden sand, the dust, on the edge of the bank, beckons you to leap. You lock your knees, hands splayed like wings and a smile, That isn’t happy, appears like the rattling of chained gates. A wrecking ball against the back of your teeth. It’s the smile of a caged man Pretending he’s free, The flail of a ribbon that mockingly scrapes at your cheek. You stand there with this idea that you’re old. The world has choked you and you’ve seen it allHow our paths cross and worm, side by side, then all alone. You hide your frown, seek touch, and speak like there’s fire crackling on your tongue. But every word you speak is useless to you. It’s like you’ve never been heard, Because when you speak to yourself you hear nothing in return. Your trainers are scuffed to the bone, nearing the ledge, And they shuffle sometimes like a pup lost in its sleep. You are lost in paint. Lost in smoke from exhausted lungs. But then, maybe you are finding your own way home on a path that only you know. And then the wind wails, screaming and spitting at the sun...and you breathe. Deeply. So, I stand here with my arms by my sides and wish that you could see what I see. There is such a haze in the light as you stand there across from me, With your arms outstretched for the sun. It’s my turn to breathe. It’s my turn to outstretch my arms and spread my hands like wings. And I wish I could make you believe that you needn’t reach so far. And so desperately.

31 Penny for the Guy Jon Nicholl

At last the guy was finished. We stood back and looked at our handy work. The guy was wearing Dan’s old lumber shirt, joggers and silver Nike trainers complete with balaclava for its head and hat. Dan was a short kid. He always wore a pair of second hand, and thick black glasses Mr. Miller got him a while back. Nice man was Mr. Miller, always wore a big smile upon his old wrinkly face, sad he passed away just last Christmas. Since Dan and I both lived in the crammed old care home we couldn’t really afford new clothes’ so we would always wear whatever we could get hold off. The care home was full of young children, coming in and out frequently. Dan and I were a bit older, and we had ‘behaviour problems’ the home said. People wouldn’t adopt us. Dan became my best friend. We met when we were six and have been friends for six years. We were thrown together due to unfortunate circumstances. My mother was a druggie and his parents just couldn’t cope with his behavioural problems. Dan was quite a charmer with his blue eyes, blond hair and good looks. He was always chatting to the girls and wheeling and dealing. He came up with the ideas and I could get the goods. We made quite a team. Dan’s parents would occasionally visit the home. I wish they were my parents and felt a sense of jealousy when they came to see Dan. As I was his best friend we were both taken out for trips, they felt like family. I wish they would adopt me. Dan had an adorable little sister who was born with cerebral palsy and since knowing the family for the last six years they had been endlessly fund raising for Kirsty, to send her to America to have “special treatment”. I loved his parents, I always kept it a secret from Dan though, he might’ve thought it was weird and it didn’t seem right to let him know when he said such awful things about them. When Dan suggested “penny for the guy”, I thought it would be a perfect opportunity to donate my half share of the money to “Kirsty’s cause” which would surely make them love me. *****

My plan was to parade our guy around town, collecting donations for the NSPCC and then split the money between us. I found a super market trolley, decorated it with a black sheet that Rob stole from Primark, attached a sign NSPCC on the side of the trolley together with a load of leaflets, just to make it more believable, all pilfered from the care home. Everything was ready to go and we both set off for town. I was full of excitement as was Rob. November the 5th always had an exciting feel about it. The misty atmosphere together with the smoke bellowing from gardens and firework events always made me feel strange. The whizzing and bangs from the displays were awesome. For that split second the sight of a firework exploding and showering twinkles from the black night sky left me intoxicated for another. I felt slightly strange but carried on pushing the trolley along the streets. Quite a few people were in a good mood and put notes and coins in the box that Rob had attached to the front of the trolley. This was going good and we had not even made it to town. I felt a strange feeling again, this time in my stomach; it must have been the excitement of all the money we had collected. It was hard work pushing the trolley; I took my coat and gloves and threw them over the handles of the trolley. “Are you ok?” Rob asked, “Fine, I just need a drink, it’s hard work pushing this trolley,” I reassuringly replied. Grimwood Park seemed the ideal place to stand and shout “Penny for the Guy”. The passing crowds made it easier for us to collect with everyone being in a jovial mood. As the generosity of the people passing by increased so did the weight of our collection box. It began to tear away from the front of the trolley. Then the duck tape ripped. The contents of our collection bucket spewed onto the cold, cobblestone floor. I instinctively scrambled to pick up the notes before they flew off into the cold winter wind. After minutes of desperately salvaging what I could, I sprang to my feet and released my rage upon him. “You incompetent little…” I screeched. “Calm down,” Rob softly replied. I could feel the anger brewing; they always said I was “Prone to outbursts”. Rob was always a fool; His half-arsed ideas always went tits up. Had there been enough tape on the bucket it would not have fallen off, we had lost the best part of the money in the crowds. On the way to the park we were dizzy with excitement at the thought of lighting some fireworks. We hatched a plan where Rob would go into the petrol station, buy some sweets and keep the shop assistant occupied while I stole the petrol and fireworks and sneaked out. We considered ourselves as professionals, the inseparable two. As we approached the petrol station I felt a rush of adrenalin flowing through my body. It was getting late and we needed to be back at the home by ten. Rob walked in first, I entered thirty seconds later when he was distracting the shop assistant. I picked up a small bottle of petrol and slipped it under my jacket. I walked over to the fireworks, which had been reduced in price, selected the first box on the shelf and again slowly slipped them under my jacket. I casually pulled open the door and strolled out, with Rob following. As I pushed the trolley further down the road to be out of view I threw my loot into the trolley. We began to head for Grimwood Park.

In a secluded spot Rob began to sort through the fireworks while I collected wood from the surrounding trees. The canopy that we were under was ideal for our plan; it was very dark and quiet. I felt strange again; the money in the collection bucket began to distract my attention, moments later I found myself already counting the money. There were around three hundred and twenty pounds; I was always bad at maths and counting. This amount could get me a train ticket to London and away from this s*** hole, to a better life. The bonfire was ready to be lit. I turned to Rob who was selecting a firework. My heart began to race; I could feel the adrenalin flowing through my veins. I quietly selected a large rock, gently picked it up and struck the guy across the head. The sound of the rock splitting open his skull was like the sound of a firework exploding in the distance and pieces of his brain sprayed out from his skull like a rocket shooting its stars into the night sky. I threw the bloodied guy on the bonfire as if it were no more than a ragdoll and poured the petrol across his body. I struck the match. Lit the fire. I picked up the bucket, then turned around and walked away.

32 Tainted Blood Samantha Whitby

The seven foot giant falters backwards and gasps. His wild, bloodshot eyes widen in shock, his pupils convulsing with terror. He sees only the deep scar lining his abdomen, the thick, crimson blood pumping mercilessly from the split, swollen veins. And in that moment he drops, heavily, to drown within the ocean of scarlet that is the tainted blood of both allies and enemies. He gags, choking, a torrent of sanguis fluid climbing his throat, wetting his lips – but then a long, slow shudder rocks through his body, and he is still. For a moment, I stand, alone, tacit, victorious. For a moment, success overrides agony, and I feel only glory. But none tread the path of war and conflict and escape unscathed, for it is rife only with corruption, fraught with death, anguish, and sorrow. In the end, no being emerges victorious from conflict. Pain lurches through my body, hard and fast. It is harsh and sharp, enough to have me wanting to double over, enough to drain me of all remaining energy. An agony so deep, all I want to do is scream. A pain so cold, all I can manage is a short, mortified gasp. The small of my back is burning – a cold burning, a frigid blistering. I begin to tremble, violently, and my knees buckle beneath what feels to be an amassing weight – the weight of a long dead warrior, drowned in an ocean of tainted blood.

33 Maps Matt Worrell

A map, A map of intersecting red lines Each carved into the impressionable, malleable earth. Each carrying memories. Memories forgotten yet remembered, By a long broken mind. The map, Traced each night By unseeing hands, Praying for meaning in the darkness. Retrace these roads, Remember their meaning, The pain to their craft, The pain in their motive. Each one to be recarved later, And each to be forgotten.

34 My Room Katherine Pannifer

A floor, Scattered with the unknown, Awaiting sun. A tower, Built with uneven blocks, Leaning unsteadily. A drawer, Unclosed on moaning hinges, Unruly objects escaping. A desk, Cluttered and unusable, Purpose forgotten. A door, Covered with varying stickers, Overlapping colours. A wall, The original colour undeterminable, Plastered with images. A rack, Broken on one end and overused, Teetering on the oblivion. A bookshelf, Holding more than one forgotten tome, A reminder of days past. A bed, Littered with unending pages, Unmade and abandoned. A room, Its inhabitantâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s taste questionable, Albeit loved. 48

35 Imaginary Travel Writing 2: New York Anastasia Haynes

New York in the height of summer. A city renowned for its shopping and landmarks, but it was exactly where I did not want to be. However, due to a sudden windfall and a discount airway, I ended up in the Big Apple. In amongst the sweating, writhing mass of bodies I found myself, stumbling as my malfunctioning suitcase jolted and shook as if in protest to the city itself. I, of course, was sharing the same such sentiments, but after being told I needed to have a break this is where I ended up. On and on I trudged, intent on reaching the destination of my hotel, but it soon became clear that this was not to be, and so I contented myself with sitting on a bench in Central Park. Many people view New York as an idyllic metropolis, the hub of industrialisation and virtue, but as I looked at the people passing by me I saw not successful business people, but bolshie tourists wearing garish clothes and revealing too much skin. After abandoning all hope of getting to enjoy the beautiful city view, I resigned myself to wandering around the irritatingly identical streets in a vain attempt to get a mere glimpse of my surroundings, and perhaps find my hotel – but this was to no avail as I was again thwarted by the vexatious voyagers as they continued to stumble about the path, taking polaroids of every soulless skyscraper and metallic building to trick themselves into thinking that they’re having a good time, and which they would eventually show to some poor beggar who dares to enquire about their holiday away. The sun soon set, causing the sky to turn a warm amber red and yet, the crowds showed no signs of thinning, and instead seemed to flood with people as I was swept a long – a piece of debris in a never ending flood of people. Mercifully, soon enough, the river started out and I saw I had reached my destination – Times Square. The lurid billboards flashed incessantly, both dazzling and overwhelming me all at once. Everywhere I looked I was told something that I didn’t even know about myself – that I was thirsty, hungry, needed new shoes and clothes etc. It felt like I had jumped into an alternate universe where greed and mass consumerism were all that remained – that and LED lights of course. There was no escape from the unrelenting light; they bore themselves into my skull and tunnelled their way out of the back of my head, leaving behind only a dull ache as a sign of their passing. To shut my eyes only worsened the situation, as I now had the problem of the flashing lights turning my eyelids a violent shade of red once every few seconds. All around me people yelled, screamed and shouted, and I struggled to find a single person talking at a normal volume – in New York if you don’t shout you’re not heard.

Having had my fair share of tourist attractions, I began to meander my way to my long forgotten hotel. At last people had begun to return to their homes, leaving behind just one jet-lagged woman and her busted suitcase to roam the streets. As I finally reached my hotel I couldn’t help but think back to my day: the park, the square. It’s funny, but when you tend to look back on things they tend to take on an altogether more positive light, and maybe that’s what New York is all about – viewing things positively despite the trying circumstances.

36 The Harpa Isabella Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Reilly

It stands alone. A Monument to abstract thoughts. Glowing in the gloom Panes of glass that stare, Stacked in prisms of colour. Waiting for your eyes. The halls echo the Sound of your footsteps, clapping. All you hear is you. Wandering like dust, Breathing in the light you see. All you hear is you. But all you see is me.

37 Basketball in the Skies Katie Harling-Challis

I thwack the ball down into the hard, black ground, the asphalt crumbling microscopically. That sound, hollow and deep, but tinged with the high-pitched ringing of taught fibres thrown unexpectedly against hard surfaces. Steady beats, rising pace, swap hands, clap hands, palms stinging, ringing their own sounds. Feet shuffle, side step, back step, swirl under my invincible invisible opponent. Small is agile, fast easily dismissed. Arms stretch, hands and fingers extend, reaching for the ball thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gained its brief and false freedom. Caught - success. Now move, side to side to side, head and shoulders down, face up, left arm as a shield, warding off the eager and violent opponent. Now weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re down, crouching, cat-like, knees bent, body bent and ready and rising and springing up and out and we leave the ground and there is pure freedom and ecstasy and the ball experiences its own brief escape once again and it rides high in the air, lifting, curving, spinning that perfect spin, and then down down down, slight bounce, metallic ding, the net shivers, the ball falls through back into its previous trapping universe through the wormhole and into my hands, that clasp and cling and bring the ball close to my chest, my heart, thumping through my limbs and breath clouding into my face, the night sky clear with stars, small galaxies above and falling down on me, upon me.

38 Ardor’s Lament Kamara Archer

A wise woman once said that, “once is too many”, A time for tears to flow for a love, unrequited. “Your time is for work, happiness, or rest, Until the sky resets, and dawn is invited.” However, I’m afraid to say, Last night, those antique words, were broken. For – in bed – the earliest hours of eventide’s day Were spent enduring lashes of love’s bad omen. I wept for hours in repeated sorrow, As the tsunamis in love engulfed my mind. I learnt survival strokes until the dawn of next day To “feel better in the morning”, or any feel of the kind. I awoke to find my body had survived, But my heart and mind bore the scars of struggle. Immobilised by memories, I curled up and bided, Yearning protection from the duvet snuggle. The feel – once felt – will never return, Not one like those sacrificed. Saved for seldom experience, now for him of Happiness, warmth, flushes of reserved coyness. So soak that pillow with sorrow, And let them be happy together. The felicity of others exceeds your own, For past, now, and forever.

39 Pathetic Fallacy Caroline Rust

The mist lay thick on the cold wet morning. The night before had rained and rained and as if like a dream she was quietly sad. As usual the analogy that her mother had used about the weather still held today: “if it’s cold and dry I can still get on with things and be happy. If it’s raining and gloomy but warm you can’t get on with anything outside and it makes you sadder.” The mist had in my own mind always been a magical place but had always signified a dull and gloomy day ahead. So arising from bed today I was happier than I had been the previous evening and the mist created a very magical setting. The road, the garden, everywhere was drenched with wet from the night before. The sun was nowhere to be seen behind the thick layer of clouds that still surrounded the area for as far as we could see. The mist had become thinner since I had woken up, but there was no sign of life, nothing there to say that today was to be a good day. Nothing there to tell me to be happy. Yet I was. Pathetic fallacy had been words in my vocabulary that had a forgotten meaning, no sense of purpose. Yet it seemed perfect here. However, my head seemed more concerned that there was another, deeper, more hidden meaning to this morning than a word or a phrase. Pathetic fallacy was the start, but no more than that. This morning was merely the recollection of an old memory, meeting new beginnings. It was a sad day that I was pleased to have a part in. An old memory in new beginnings.

40 Flatford Mill Caroline Rust

Trees swayed in the light breeze, as the river flowed slowly on towards the mill; I remembered the childhood times that I had spent there. I remembered the drawings that would take an hour and a half to create and by that time there was no time to draw any more, as the night drew in around us taking away our freedom, and forcing us inside. I remember one time in particular, for I drew and drew and drew. I created masterpieces on a book that was in need of repair and for one night only luck was by my side. Time went slowly, slower than ever before, and I wish now that it had gone on, for so much has happened since that night of four drawings. My father used to take me down in the summer months after school and after mum had come home from work. We would leave Joseph at home with mum and go on down to some place new or to a place that was regularly visited. There we would meet with a group of friends from the art class my father attended then sit somewhere and draw. I loved drawing but I always admired others’ work and never my own. It was always child’s play, never a masterpiece. It rarely showed any talent and now I realise that I was never to have talent. Joseph was to inherit most of my father’s drawing talent. I was just left with my father’s paintings which I inherited at an early age. Loneliness was not why I was here, visiting a memory of the past. It was recently that I had remembered the beauty of the place and not the hard work that I had put in while I was there. I realised that I had never really properly looked at the beauty of the place but the subject matter that I was about to draw. Now remembering that the place did contain a real beauty about it, I just had to revisit it alone to take in the beauty of the place, and maybe for one last time as I don’t expect to ever come back here. The only memories this place contains are those of a child’s, a secure, happy child with big dreams and a wild imagination. If you spoke to that same child now, you would find a young adult, as selfless as possible and never caring about herself, always others. Never wanting to revisit her childhood, the one that now she takes for granted.

41 This Scene Samantha Whitby

This scene, this scene, So true, so natural, a painting Brought to life. The water, cool and grey, Fleetingly disturbed by the little breeze; The grass, coating the bank of waterlogged mud, Yellowed, Drunk on rain, Starved of sunlight, As the pale clouds of silver mask The sky, the sunlight. The trees, tall, Branches of white; Leaves crispy and dry, Red, orange, yellow, Brown, The stars of a truly picturesque exhibition, Their stage, the air, still, cold, and stale; Dancing As they fall, One by one, Ending their show as they touch The ground, Passing into a deep, serene slumber, From which they shall never truly awaken, Dreaming of open summer skies As they slowly become one With the Earth beneath them.

This scene, this scene, So true, so natural, A divine miracle, One achieved only by nature, Lasting only a fleeting moment in body, But, in memory, a lifetime. This scene, this scene, So true, so natural, a painting Brought to life.

42 Red Ellie Lever

We had been inseparable Like the white clouds clasping To the blue sky. On that spring day we stood together You swept the hair off of my face, Our eyes gazed at one anotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s I felt the warm embrace of your jacket Your hand touched mine A rush of electricity rushed through me like A lion hunting its prey. The raw emotion seeped through my skull. I wish you understood what it meant. The burning red passion That burned within me

43 Imaginary Travel Writing 3: The Great Barrier Reef Kathryn Philpott

Several hours had passed since we had arrived in Townsville so my stomach was beginning to return to its natural place and as a result my mood was rapidly improving. The sun was shining down on us and the heat was just right for me. Some may call it too hot, but to me it was perfect. Perfect weather and temperature for one of my favourite activities, diving. We caught a taxi that took us to a nearby set of docks; it was there that we were to find our boat. My companions were in a mixture of attitudes; some were fanning themselves impatiently while others were bouncing in their seats. There were four of us and that was the best sort of number, we didn’t want a crowd, a lot of people would just get in the way. We are real divers and we were working on our research. Still, we were inexperienced in these sorts of waters so we did have to have a tour guide who led us out of our taxi and into the once again burning sunlight. We took no time getting ourselves into our custom wetsuits and climbed onto the little boat that had been hired for us. It was incredibly refreshing to be able to wear a wetsuit without freezing half to death in the murky British waters we were used to. With the hot sea air beating against our bare faces, we could smell the salty sea that was all around us as we sped in the direction of our destination. With every bounce the boat made, we felt closer to this great and beautiful place. And then, before we knew it, it was time to dive. With all equipment set up and ready, we all took our positions and fell orderly into the water. Instantly I felt the pleasant coolness of the sea, not freezing like the British sea but pleasantly warm against my skin. The water was crystal clear around me; the blue ocean stood across from us, seemingly endless as it continued on passed our eyes’ ability. The coral we dived close to was stunning; as we descended we saw the different types and the absolute variety of fish and other wonderful sea creatures. We communicated briefly, telling each other with our multiple hand signs that we would split up and I was more than happy to oblige. Swimming on my own, hovering a short distance away from the coral I noticed two sharks - tiger sharks I assumed from their basic body shape. They were elegant and predatory, dangerous but still beautiful to watch. From my training I knew to stay out of their way, to simply swim slowly and quietly along the seafloor so that I didn’t disturb the creatures and I didn’t. I knew that tiger sharks were dangerous, but as they circled above me in their own world, I knew that I was safe from them. They were in their home, I was a simple visitor and I would not get into their way. 59

Continuing on, I reached a point where our guide was simply floating whilst staring out at the open sea. For a moment, I wondered what he was looking at and he turned and saw me, pointing to his eyes before moving his finger to gesture towards the open sea. Moving towards him, I saw them. The minke whales were there, just like they had said they would be. Floating in their pods, gliding on by nearly a mile away from where we were swimming. I knew then that this trip had been worth every penny we had spent - even as we got back onto our boat and headed off to our lodgings I could feel that if that was only the first day, things were going to get a lot better.

44 Headed for Home Samantha Whitby

The night sky is vast and open. It appears particularly dusky on this evening, a rolling mass of violet and indigo and black, and there is an especially sharp chill to the air – though it is one that carries a peculiarly warm edge, much unlike the greatly unpleasant iciness that greeted us upon our arrival to this place several hours prior. Following only a day of hectic and hurried rush-arounds, there is a moment of sweet serenity as I clamber exhaustedly into my leather seat and pull my car door to a close behind me. I sit in silence here for a long moment whilst my dad packs away the wheelchair in which I have spent the majority of my afternoon, arguing exasperatedly with what I think are the foot panels – though for only a moment, as the boot is very soon closed, and my dad is in the driver’s seat beside me. I am fighting to maintain my wakefulness as the 2.5 engine growls softly and rumbles into gear. For a time it is not so difficult; my stomach turns repellently as the vehicle pulls out of its parking place, and cruises gently in a continual downward whorl as it descends towards the departure gates. It is only a distance of two storeys, and yet the continual swerving motions are enough to have my abdomen churn and my state of consciousness restored. These very first three levels of the 8-storey park are entirely packed full, crammed with cars whose ordinarily vibrant tints and tones have been masked by the shade, picking up very little of the dimmed overhead’s yellowed radiance, that carries a yearsold feel to it from the cold and concrete, almost urban environment that it works to brighten. Vehicles of a striking sports red now bear the rich crimson of the purest and the healthiest of blood; exuberant electric blues and soft sapphire shades have been darkened down to the sleek ultramarine of a starless night sky; the black of cold metal has somehow blackened further, touching ominous colourings that I dare not think to name. At long last, we pass beneath the raising, red-and-white striped gates at the departure point, and down a slope we wheel into open space, turning a sharp bend at the blood donor building, and pulling onto the winding road that guides cars through the trees and to the hospital’s exit point. We join a lengthy trail of orange tail-lights and bright white headlights, all headed for the damp and grassy roundabout around the bend, that, even in the night-time dusk, can still cast the healthily harlequin green shade of the blades; in very much the same way, the double-sized, tremendously verdant roll in the earth only several yards further along the tarmac road emanates its own emerald and jade hues.

The repetitious wailing and the brilliantly blue flaring of ambulance sirens splits the silence with a blood-curdling whine, and in the next instant cars have veered to the side, and an ambulance bearing the dancing lights of cold and icy blue sails past, very closely followed by a second. Following a particularly infuriating delay as a result of a troublesome blue vehicle up front, the cars return to their position on the road, and it is very much as if nothing ever happened in the first place. Our own car glides gracefully along each road, an elegant black jaguar streaking through the night, its lustrous and sable coat gleaming beneath the brilliantly orange street lights. Under the guidance of a two-storey bus, bearing the figure 13 in a glaring orange digits upon a black screen, it encircles each of the two islands carefully, before finally moving on to begin prowling the dreadfully lit A11 roadway.

45 Untitled Katie Harling-Challis

Up above those stars shine bright And, amongst the bustle and noise of city life They are lost to the dim and dark But these lights which are not on fire by human power shine bright out in that old universe in which we dwell But this old universe is new to us Just as an elderly neighbour may be a new neighbour while that young neighbour may be an old neighbour and so.

We dwell and walk and light up this world of ours with our own little stars. But maybe we should once in a while remember. To look up.

Featured Writers Lucy Allan Kamara Archer Tristan Cabielles Katie Harling-Challis Zack Davies Ian Drake Katie Foster Sophie Hallewell Anastasia Haynes Huw Johnson Ellie Lever Jon Nicholl Isabella Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Reilly Katherine Pannifer Kathryn Philpott Charlotte Rowntree Caroline Rust Kirsten Smith Edward Sweet Samantha Whitby Matt Worrell Cover Artwork Paige Miller